


Break Down

by at_kilis_service



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Post-Reichenbach John, Reichenbach Fall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-18
Updated: 2013-03-18
Packaged: 2017-12-05 18:22:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/726401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/at_kilis_service/pseuds/at_kilis_service
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every breakdown played out the same way. <br/>It would start with some form of stimulus. It didn't have to be hugely obvious, in fact most of the time it wasn't. He could run out of milk, or someone could just walk past in a blue scarf. One time it was the smallest glimpse of yellow spray paint on the way home from the surgery. Either way, the same steps would always follow, and always in the same order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Break Down

Every breakdown played out the same way. 

It would start with some form of stimulus. It didn't have to be hugely obvious, in fact most of the time it wasn't. He could run out of milk, or someone could just walk past in a blue scarf. One time it was the smallest glimpse of yellow spray paint on the way home from the surgery. Either way, the same steps would always follow, and always in the same order. 

It would begin with the flashbacks. Sherlock's last 'Goodbye, John' would sound in his head over and over, then his vision would be filled with the image of Sherlock's silhouette falling from the rooftop. A sickening feeling would churn in John's stomach as he continued to fall. The flashback would end in the gut-wrenching sound of a body hitting the floor.

While all of these flashbacks wound their way through his conscious thoughts like weeds, John's chest would begin to ache. It was such an unpleasant feeling that he often found himself begging to be shot again if it would drown it out. 

This would continue on through to the next stage. John would no longer be able to match his thought processes to the sounds coming from his mouth. 

This was often when his peers would begin to realise that it was happening again, but also that it was too late to stop it. No matter how many times the closest person would ask “are you okay”, He couldn't form a verbal reply that wasn't a mutter of the detectives name.

It wouldn't take long for the thoughts alone to also become incoherent. They would become impossible to group or organise into even the simplest of sentences no matter how hard John tried. Every train of thought would drive straight back to the fall.

Following this would be the spreading of the ache from his chest to his throat. It was not unlike any other 'lump in your throat', but it was unpleasant all the same. Every time it would always be followed by shaking. 

The shakes would start with the twitch in John's hand. It would be barely noticeable up until the shaking spread up his arm. It would spread to the rest of his body almost as quickly as it started, and by this point it would be impossible to hide. 

John's breathing would then begin to falter. It would start with the general deepening of his breathing. Soon after it would become irregular, coming out in short but frequent spurts and gasps as the tears began to threaten to fall.

The tears would start with a prickling at the back of his eyes. A thousand tiny stabbing sensations that continued until all he felt was a dull ache and the tears brimmed his eyes. The shaking would spread to his lips by this point, and he would be lost to all around him. 

After this, the breakdown truly started. John would no longer be able see through the tears, and his breathing would turn to choked sobs. This would then trigger the hair gripping and dizziness. John's world would spin around him, leaving him disorientated as he cried, so much so that he would often curl up in a ball; whether it be in his chair, or against a wall, or even on the floor. The hair gripping, he would say, was a way of keeping a hold onto reality. It would stop him spinning of completely. People stopped trying to pry his hands open after that.

The final stage would be John's hands switching to grabbing at air, or even the nearest person, still sobbing. The breakdown would reach its peak with a final utterance. 

“Sherlock...”

John knew every time he reached out that it wouldn't be Sherlock. 

Every time it wasn't him. 

Many a time it wasn't anybody. 

Yet each time he continued to reach out, just for that little hope that maybe his wish for that one miracle could come true. 

It was a tiny hope, but it was enough to keep him fighting.


End file.
